


After Sirion

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon - Enhances original, Characters - Strongly in character, Characters - Well-handled emotions, Drama, First Age, Plot - Bittersweet, Plot - Good pacing, Writing - Clear prose, Writing - Engaging style
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2008-07-26
Packaged: 2018-03-23 08:51:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3762130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Third Kinslaying, two pairs of brothers struggle to repair their broken families.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

In death, Ambarussa is beautiful. His body lies on a bed of autumn leaves, and his sword lies at his side. The auburn of his hair mingles with the foliage, red and brown, as if he were a specter of the season. There is only peace in his pale face.  
  
Maedhros has seen so much death, ugly and sharp and sudden, that he forgot it could be like this, still and silent, as if the empty vessel rejoiced to give up its burden. He kneels and kisses his brother's brow. Then he takes up a shovel and begins a burial mound. It's clumsy work, but it's something he must do alone—company would be unbearable right now.  
  
As he piles up earth, grief puts memories in his head. He remembers the twins as they were in Aman—his littlest brothers, they always seemed so young, ever slow to speech but quick to laughter. Ambarussa and Ambarussa—who could have imagined them apart? Yet Amrod whom he buries now has spent more years without his twin than with him. Perhaps this is the source of his face's serenity—that he is free of the cares of Middle-earth, and in losing two brothers, gains four, and one of these dearest of all.  
  
Now Maedhros and Maglor are the only ones left. Maedhros does not understand why fate has spared them. Why shouldn't the sons of Fëanor be wiped off the earth? At least in death his poor brother is free of their Oath. His long-dead twin, happier still, guilty of but one Kinslaying.  
  
When Maedhros is finished, he sits down by the mound, exhausted. He ought to cry, but what he feels is so faint—only a spiderweb of emotion across his numb brain. Soon he stands and wanders to the edge of the clearing where his people have raised their tents for the night. They have halted in a sparse wood by the banks of Sirion—beautiful country, safe as anywhere. There is no hurry to return to Ossiriand. One Silmaril is lost, the other two unassailable. Such a sickly peace as might be had is theirs, by necessity if not by right.  
  
A man of their company approaches him, limping from a wound. "My lord."  
  
Maedhros wishes he wouldn't call him that. "What is it?"  
  
"Lord Maglor has been looking for you. He desires to speak to you. I can bring you to him."  
  
"Please."  
  
The man leads him to his brother's tent. It's a fine old thing dating back to before the Nirnaeth, a gift from Amrod, who had it from the Laiquendi. The canvas is lightweight and sturdy, once dyed green and yellow, now faded to an even gray. A partition, much patched, separates it into two rooms, and the trappings of council lies in the foremost of these—low cushions filled with fragrant herbs and a large map of the region. The simple comfort of the place fills Maedhros with a momentary nausea. He can hardly recall a time when he was capable of taking real pleasure in material things.  
  
Maglor appears in the far opening. He is gray as granite and looks tired as Maedhros feels, though his only injury is a bandaged gash on his left arm. His face is carefully composed, but like all of Maglor's masks, it's a patchwork construction that threatens to fall to pieces at any moment.  
  
"Hello, brother," he says, his voice strained and for a moment extraordinarily unbeautiful.  
  
"I've buried him," Maedhros says. "A mound among the leaves. Someone with two hands can make a marker for him tonight."  
  
"Thank you," Maglor says. "But—well—come and see for yourself."  
  
Maglor leads him into the back room of the tent. On a rolled-up blanket in the center sit two very young boys. They are dark-haired and gray-eyed, and their faces are marked by grief as only children can wear it, utterly unconcealed. When they see Maedhros, they both start and stare at him. One whispers something, and the other nods.  
  
They are identical twins.  
  
Maedhros turns and walks out of the tent. Maglor follows him.  
  
"They are Elwing's sons," he says, hurrying to match Maedhros's strides. "Our people captured them."  
  
"What, are we mortal Men, that we must murder the heirs of our enemies?"  
  
"There was panic. I don't know what they thought. Perhaps they hoped we could ransom them for the jewel. At any rate, here they are."  
  
"Well, let them go, then! I do not see what I have to do with it."  
  
"There is nowhere for them to go."  
  
Maedhros stops.  
  
"Their mother is likely dead," Maglor says. "Their people are scattered. There is no place for them now."  
  
Maedhros studies his brother. "Then what do you suggest?"  
  
"I am going to look after them."  
  
Maedhros smiles despite himself. "I wish you the best of luck, then. I'm sure they will be very happy living among their mother's murderers."  
  
He begins to walk away, but Maglor seizes his arm.  
  
"Are you so hardened," he cries, "that you cannot take pity even on children?"  
  
Maedhros pulls out of his grasp. "The house of Fëanor has no great history of doing well by children."  
  
"You think of Dior's sons. That was ill-done. But it was not our deed. I do not do this to redeem our house's name, but because they need me."  
  
"I was not speaking of the sons of Dior."  
  
At this, Maglor's face clouds, and composure leaves him. But he soon recovers.  
  
"Well, you have seen them," he says. "Their names are Elrond and Elros. Let everyone know they are to be treated with kindness. They are innocent in this conflict."  
  
"I will ask our men to restrain their barbarity," Maedhros says, and leaves.  
  
***  
  
The world has changed.  
  
Elrond doesn't know this yet. He is six years old, and introspection is for him an imperfect art. He knows only that he is afraid, so afraid that it feels as if he has never before known fear. All the stories he has ever been told now seem dim and impossible—how can anyone ever have been brave, feeling like this? All the great heroes, like Beren and Lúthien, or Denethor of the Laiquendi, must not have felt fear at all. That must be what courage is.  
  
Fear paralyzes, he now knows. If only he and Elros had run faster, they would not have been separated from their mother. But everything was such a confusion, and they were so _scared_. That was how the men took them prisoner. He did not like the men—cold-faced soldiers with swords and bows who spoke softly among themselves, then yelled at them to walk faster. Yet they were Elves. Elrond had not known that Elves could be cruel.  
  
For hours they walked, growing wearier and more frightened. "Are you going to kill us?" Elros asked, and one of them said, "Of course not," but in a voice that wasn't sure.  
  
Finally they reached the clearing of tents, and the Elves brought them to the man in whose tent they wait now. They are trying to be brave—and above all not to cry—but it is only growing more difficult. For now they know who the Elves are. The ones who captured them would not talk to them, but this one, Maglor, has told them himself—he is of the House of Fëanor. They know this name. The sons of Fëanor killed their mother's parents.  
  
"Maybe we should try to escape," Elros says, as they wait for Maglor to return.  
  
"There are people all around," Elrond says. "They'd see us."  
  
"Maybe if we run fast," Elros says, but there's a pleading in his voice that says he know it's no good.  
  
Elrond is about to reply when Maglor returns, alone. He stands in the doorway for a few moments, just looking at them.  
  
"May I?" he says at last, and sits cross-legged in front of them.  
  
They sit in silence. Maglor doesn't seem to know what to say any more than they do. He looks very upset. Elrond can't imagine him killing anyone, but he supposes you can't tell something like that from the outside.  
  
"Who was that man?" Elros asks. "With the red hair."  
  
"That was my brother," Maglor says. "Maedhros."  
  
Maedhros looks like he could kill someone—like he has. Elrond doesn't like his face; it's like someone has set a fire behind his eyes. Yet Maedhros looked upset, too.  
  
"Is our mother dead?" he asks.  
  
Maglor looks away. "I don't know. My people saw her—they saw her leap into the sea. We don't know if she lives. It is unlikely. I'm very sorry."  
  
"If you're sorry, why did you attack us?" Elros says. He looks surprised at his own daring even as he says it.  
  
"Do you know about the Silmarils?"  
  
"Yes," Elrond says. "You want to steal them, because they were your father's once."  
  
"My father made them. When Morgoth stole them from us, we swore to retrieve them at any cost. It was a very evil oath. But now we are bound by it."  
  
He pauses for a moment. Then he says softly, "I know you are both very frightened—and that I am the cause of it as much as anyone—but you must know that you are safe now. No one will harm you. Do you understand?"  
  
Elrond nods. Elros doesn't. Elrond sees that his brother is crying silently, his jaw set with anger. He wonders if he should be angry too. But he's so scared and sad that there isn't room for it.  
  
Maglor looks like he's about to say something, only to change his mind. "Are you hungry?" he asks instead.  
  
Neither twin answers.  
  
Maglor lets out a long sigh. He stands. "I will bring food, and you may eat when you like. When you are tired, we'll make a bed. I'll be right outside if you need anything."  
  
"Are you going to make us stay here?" Elrond asks, the realization of their predicament overcoming his fear.  
  
"I wish there was somewhere else for you to go," Maglor says, and leaves.  
  
A few minutes later, another Elf comes with a platter of food—bread, dried meat, and a waterskin. Through the door flap, they glimpse Maglor talking with his red-haired brother again. He sees them, and smiles a little, but says no word.  
  
Then they are left alone with the food. It looks delicious. For a while they only stare at it, but then, in silent consensus, they eat.  
  
"I don't think she's dead," Elros says, after a long silence.  
  
"I don't think so either," Elrond says.  
  
That's all there is to say.


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the Third Kinslaying, two pairs of brothers struggle to repair their broken families.

That night, Maglor dreams about his wife. They are together in their old house in Eldamar. The light slanting through the window is moonlight, but it portends no grief—it is as if the Two Trees never were.  
  
In his dream, they make love, languorously, like people who have never known separation and do not fear death. Their passion is not desperate; it blooms like an eternal rose.  


Only Ilúvatar knows the final note of their song.  
  
Afterwards, they lie in each other's arms, satisfied. Maglor tells her he loves her. And he tells her that he wants to have a child.  
  
There's no reply. He opens his eyes—and he sees that he's embracing his brother Maedhros's skeleton.  
  
***  
  
Maedhros avoids Maglor for the next few days. There isn't much with which to busy himself—the people who follow them are self-sufficient; they no longer expect or need a spirited leader to overlook their activities. Hunting, cooking, washing, and a myriad of other camp activities are managed without him. He spends much of his time walking alone through the sparse woodlands, watching the autumn leaves collect in piles beneath his feet. "How are your twins?" he asks Maglor whenever he sees him, with a humorless smile. Maglor in turn looks grim, and tells him that they are as well as can be expected.  
  
The boys themselves have been scarce. They sleep in the back room of his brother's tent and spend little time outside Maglor's watchful company. Yet Maedhros cannot avoid them forever, and on the third day of camping beside Sirion, he sees them sitting alone beside Maglor's tent, talking quietly together. They look like they've had a bath since he last saw them, and wear matching tunics of a fabric decidedly reminiscent of one of Maglor's old shirts. Seeing him, they fall silent, watching wide-eyed as he walks by. It is only afterward that the cause of their silence occurs to him—his sleeves were rolled up, and they saw his missing hand.  
  
He forgets about it until that evening, when Maglor joins him where he sits by a campfire, idly tracing patterns in the dirt with his dagger.  
  
"Hello," Maedhros says. He doesn't ask after the twins.  
  
Maglor talks about them anyway.  
  
"Do you have that old flute?" he asks. "I think the boys would like it."  
  
Maedhros looks up from his scratchings. "What flute?"  
  
"The one I made you when we were children. You still had it when we first went to Ossiriand, didn't you?"  
  
"I suppose. I don't know where it is now."  
  
There's a silence.  
  
"Did they ask about my hand?" Maedhros asks.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Your twins. I walked past them today, and they saw it."  
  
"Ah. No, they didn't. I suppose they were too shy to ask. Why?"  
  
It's a question Maedhros can't answer, and so he says nothing.  
  
"If you're so concerned about it, talk to them yourself," Maglor says.  
  
"Yes, just the way to win the hearts of our young prisoners. Sit them down to hear about my old war wounds."  
  
"It would distract them. I wish you wouldn't avoid them. They'll only be more afraid of you."  
  
"Let them be afraid!" Maedhros says. "A healthy fear of a pack of Kinslayers is nothing to be discouraged. But instead you would train them like sparrows to eat out of our hands, even as we ready the next snare."  
  
He speaks thoughtlessly, for the sake of being argumentative more than anything else, and expects Maglor to follow suit. But his brother says nothing, only gazes at him with still eyes, as if seeing him for the first time.  
  
"You have changed so much," he says, and walks away.  
  
***  
  
That night, Maglor eats supper with the twins as usual. It's growing cooler, so they take their meal within the tent. He has grown to enjoy this; grieving children are children still, and even their meals are marked with a youthful levity. They fiddle with their food and jab one another with their utensils; they whisper and make faces and sing tunelessly as they eat. Maglor doesn't have the heart or the nerve to chastise them for dawdling, and the boys are well enough behaved that they don't need lectures. They finish every scrap of food and even pile up their tableware when they are through.  
  
After dinner he finds he has a mind for music, and so he takes out the smaller of his harps. It's badly out of tune. The boys watch with curiosity as he tightens and loosens the strings, humming a little to get the pitches right.  
  
"Are you a bard?" one of them asks—Elros, he thinks.  
  
He smiles. "I suppose I am. There is nothing I like better than music. But I do not usually style myself as such."  
  
Silence follows this, but this time it is not so profound.  
  
"Is that hard?" Elrond asks.  
  
"What, tuning?" Elrond nods. "No, not really. But I have been playing for a very long time. My brother Maedhros says I learned to read music before I learned my letters. Would you like to try?"  
  
Elrond and Elros exchange glances. They do this often; whenever their code of brotherly conduct is in question, a silent council is required to settle the matter.  
  
"All right," Elrond says. He comes to sits by Maglor's side, but not too near.  
  
"Try this string," Maglor says. He hands Elrond the tuning key and sounds the string in question. "It is rather sharp. Twist the peg to the right to lower the pitch. Be careful not to twist the pegs around it."  
  
Looking daunted but determined, Elrond puts the key on the peg and twists it a little. He plucks the string. "Is that enough?"  
  
"Very close. Down just a little more."  
  
Soon the string is tuned to both their satisfactions.  
  
"Very good," Maglor says. He looks to Elros. "Would you like to try?"  
  
But Elros shakes his head; it seems that Maglor is only permitted one twin's enthusiasm at a time.  
  
When he finishes tuning the harp, he looks up again. "I think I shall play for a while, out by the fire. Would you like to come and listen?"  
  
Shared glances again, but this council is a brief one.  
  
"All right," Elros says.  
  
"For a while," Elrond amends.  


Maglor makes sure they put on their jackets, then leads them outside. It's early evening; campfires make constellations across the dusky clearing. He chooses one somewhat apart from the others. A man and a woman sit by it—Ardegil and Faelwen, Maglor sees. He knows why they sit apart—Faelwen's brother and Ardegil's dear friend was one of those slain in the late battle, not at his comrades' sides, but fighting against them. Ardegil himself stood aside from the fighting, and while Faelwen is a healer, not a shieldmaiden, Maglor knows she is of Ardegil's mind. Maglor has pardoned Ardegil—has done everything short of praising him for doing what he could not do. But their grief is not lessened, and and they receive little comfort from the rest of the camp. He knows that they stay only because there is nowhere else to go.  
  
Faelwen sees him first. She raises a hand in greeting. "Have you come to sing for us?"  
  
"Perhaps," Maglor says. "I may just play. Do you mind?"  
  
She smiles faintly. "What a question! We are not speaking; it would be a dull soul indeed who preferred silence to Maglor's music."  
  
"Yet silence has its own charms."  
  
"So it does," Ardegil says. The fire flickers across his face, showing a visage fair but grim. "But we are both weary, I think, of its company. Please, honor us with your own." He looks at the twins. "And that of your charges. We have not been properly introduced."  
  
Maglor nods. "This is Elros and Elrond." To the twins he says, "This is Ardegil and Faelwen."  
  
"Hello," the boys say quietly, in unison.  
  
"I am very glad to make your acquaintance," Faelwen says.  
  
Maglor sits on one of the split logs by the fire, and the boys do the same. "What would you like me to play?"  
  
"Whatever you like," Faelwen says. "Do sing."  
  
Maglor thinks for a few moments. A wild part of him wants to play a lament, a piece of his Noldolantë, perhaps, the slow, dissonant chords relieving his guilt-laden heart. He will play it and somehow prove to the boys at his side that he is not insensible to their griefs, that he too grieves at what he has done.  
  
It's a selfish, foolish impulse. Instead he plays a song he learned from the Green-elves, a hymn of seasons, celebrating leaf-fall and leaf-stirring, frozen winter and high summer. The melody is bright and layered; it slows and quickens as it progresses, so that the variations of music mirror those of nature. When he comes to the autumn movement—his favorite—he adds his own voice, translating the words from the Silvan tongue as he goes:  
  
Now we delight in the elder season,  
In faded autumn. Bright-garmented,  
The season of fading and fruit. Season of  
Diminishings. Sing with all the earth  
Of the sleep of winter  
And of spring after!  
  
The season of stirring comes last, slow but rich, full of promise. Even in the last strains, the melody redoubles and echoes the spring-tune. The simplicity of the subject is its beauty. The music rejoices, and Maglor finds it in his heart to rejoice with it.  
  
He ends the song and remembers his audience. He has played no longer than half an hour, but the twins already look sleepy. Ardegil and Faelwen's faces are bright and watchful. Around them, some of the camp has come to listen. One of them, a shadowy figure just beyond the circle of firelight, turns and disappears as soon as he looks up. Maglor recognizes red hair and a lordly walk.  
  
"Come," he says, rising and touching a twin's shoulder. "It's time for bed."


	3. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the Third Kinslaying, two pairs of brothers struggle to repair their broken families.

On the fifth day after the battle at Sirion, a late autumn downpour starts and doesn't stop. Rain comes down in cataracts. Walking through it is like wading—one half-expects fish to swarm up out of the Sirion and school among the trees. The camp has been readying to move east, but the weather, turning what paths they have to mud, puts all plans on hold.

Elrond and his brother find themselves confined to Maglor's tent. On the first day of the storm, he allowed them to play outside, but the rain was freezing, carried by a wind that sent it sharp and slanting against their skin. The adventure quickly lost its novelty, and thoroughly soaked, they returned to the tent, where dry clothes awaited them.

Maedhros's tent isn't made to keep out water, and so he takes up residence in the front room of his brother Maglor's tent. While Elrond and Elros have given up being afraid of Maglor or the other people in the camp, they still don't like Maedhros. The missing hand and the fire in his eyes make him into something monstrous, a kind of red-hot savage. Yet he isn't especially frightening, when it comes down to it—just silent and rather strange. While the rain goes on, he spends most of his time sleeping, like a lion in a menagerie. Occasionally he reads, or draws pictures in a little book. And sometimes he just watches the rain through the half-open tent door, expressionless. When he does this, Elrond's fear falls away, and he thinks that Maedhros looks very sad.

Maglor is more obviously bored. He spends a day ripping apart old clothing and making more tunics and leggings for the two of them. At other times, he plays his harp for hours, until Maedhros tells him the noise is giving him a headache (something that Elrond cannot quite believe). When this happens, Maglor tries to engage his brother in conversation. Usually it doesn't work, but sometimes Maedhros will respond, and then they have wonderful long rambling conversations that fall in and out of a language Elrond doesn't know. As Elrond and his brother sit in the back room and amuse themselves with games and with Maglor's possessions—illustrated books, parchment and pens and ink, an elderly lyre at which they take turns strumming—they can't help but listen to their strange discussions, ranging from the mundane to topics that Elrond can't begin to comprehend, their speech full of words he's never heard before.

Sometimes Maglor talks with them, too. He talks about the illustrated books, or about music. Elrond and Elros respond politely, answering questions he asks, but there is an unspoken agreement between the two of them that Maglor is not someone they like. They like his books, and his harp, and his conversations, but better than all these would be if Maglor and his brother had died a long, long time ago. Then they could be with their mother again.

Elrond tries not to think about his mother much. If he does, it's hard not to weep, and hard not to worry that Maglor is right, that she's dead. So he doesn't think about her, or if he does, it's at night as he is falling asleep, in the deep darkness where not even Elros can tell he's crying.

On the third night of rain, there is a terrible thunderstorm. Elrond isn't afraid of lightning, but Elros is, and he burrows into his blankets, shivering as each thunderclap comes. Even Elrond is unsettled; he has never been in a thunderstorm without a proper roof over his head. He imagines a lightning bolt coming down straight through the roof of the tent, and feels uncomfortable.

"Don't be stupid," he nevertheless whispers to his brother. "It's just noise."

"But it's not just noise," Elros says, and whimpers as a loud peal of thunder erupts above them. "Why aren't you afraid?"

"I don't know," Elrond says. "Because I decided not to be, I think. It's scary-sounding but it can't really hurt you. And being afraid doesn't make it better. So I just wasn't anymore."

Elros is silent for a while. Then he says, "Do you think it's storming other places?"

"Which places?"

"I don't know. On the sea. Where our father is. Maybe there's a storm. And—" He pauses. "Wherever Mother is."

"I don't know," Elrond says.

"Maybe not. Maybe weather doesn't go that far."

"I don't know."

"You think she's dead."

"I don't."

"She isn't dead. She isn't. She's going to come and find us, we just have to wait."

"I know," Elrond says, but he doesn't know, he can't, because they are all alone in the camp with the cold rain pouring down, and if their mother is alive she must be far, far away, because otherwise she would be here, right here, holding them in the darkness.

He starts to cry, and so does Elros—great gulping sobs that shake their bones. The sound blends with the sound of the rain.

Then, unexpectedly, a voice nearby, and the sound of fabric shifting. A shadow over them, and warm, warm arms around him.

"It's all right. Hush. It's all right. It's only lightning."

Elrond stiffens. He knows that voice.

"Go away!" he screams, pushing Maglor away with all his strength. "Get away from us! Kinslayer!"

The warm arms retreat. Maglor stands. Elrond is afraid he will be angry, but all he says is, "I'm sorry," in a low, choked voice, and leaves.

Elrond watches him go. He is shaking all over. He sinks into the blankets again. Elros doesn't say anything, but he has stopped crying, and his eyes are wide.

In the other room, he can hear Maglor and his brother talking in their other language. They begin softly, but Maedhros gets louder and louder, until he is shouting. Then Maglor shouts back, and there is nothing more but the sound of the rain.

The lightning has stopped. Elros is curled up so that his right arm lies against Elrond's left; he sighs, and a piece of Elrond's hair goes fluttering.

Elrond tries to sleep, but all he can think of is Maglor, arms and voice. "It's all right." A parent's voice.

It takes him a long time to fall asleep.

***

The night after the rain stops, Maglor lies awake, listening. He wonders what he will do.

In the morning, the camp is full of voices. Tents are collapsed, packhorses laden. It's a swift process—they came with little and leave with less.

Maglor goes out among his people, directing and helping them as he can. When he passes by his own tent, he finds Elrond and Elros in the door of the tent, watching. They look up at him but don't say anything.

"Hello," he says to them, calmly and kindly as he can. "Let's sit down, shall we?"

The boys follow them into the tent and sit down across from him, identical inscrutable expressions on their faces.

"We are leaving this afternoon," he says.

"Where are you going?" Elros asks.

_You_ , Maglor thinks. "We are going to Ossiriand. Do you know where that is?"

"It's east of here," Elrond says. "The Green-elves live there."

"Yes. And we live much as they do—as nomads. But we have a little settlement, too, in the angle between two rivers, Gelion and Legolin. I am going to build a house there. There are other children there."

The boys say nothing.

"I know you're lonely, and sad, and frightened. And I know you don't like me. But you must believe me when I tell you that nothing is more important to me than your safety and happiness. You will be safe in Ossiriand."

Finally Elros speaks. "What about our mother? If she's alive, and comes looking for us? Or if our father comes for us? How will they know where we are?"

"We're not disappearing. It is well known that I dwell in Ossiriand. If they are looking for you, they will learn soon enough that you are with me." He pauses. "If I ever hear word of your parents' whereabouts, I promise you will hear of it right away."

The boys stare at the ground. He isn't sure what he wants them to say.

"It will be a week's journey," he says. "I've set aside a bag here for your things. Would you like me to help you pack?"

They shake their heads.

"Very well. I will be outside if you need me." He rises and passes out of the tent.

***

They pack their things. There isn't much—some clothing, blankets, a comb, books and knickknacks that Maglor has given them to keep. They pack slowly, as if prolonging the process will put off the moment of departure indefinitely.

Then they stop altogether. People are shouting outside. Not the friendly shouting of fellow workers across a camp, but an argument, high and impassioned. Elrond gets up and pushes aside the tent flap.

Standing not far from their tent are the man and woman Maglor introduced them to the night he sang—Faelwen and Ardegil. Faelwen looks ready to leave; she wears a heavy mantle, and pack, bow, and quiver are slung across her back. Ardegil is shouting at her.

"...and when you are dead," they hear him say, "what will come of your pride? Nothing! All you will get is grief, and we will grieve for the lack of you."

"You may," Faelwen says. "But who else will regret my going, a traitorous woman and a traitor's sister? I will live no longer among my brothers' murderers."

"Better murderers than traitors!" shouts a man who is looking on.

"There are no traitors in this camp." It is Maglor. He goes to Faelwen and takes her hand.

"Lady," he says, "if you go, it will not be for lack of welcome. You are one of our own. If anyone speaks against your remaining here, he is the traitor."

"You speak fairly, my lord, and I do not doubt that you speak as you feel," Faelwen says. "But you are not the lord of the minds of others. You cannot compel them to love me."

"Our people have been divided by grief before. Time may heal this."

"Or harm," Faelwen says. "I fear this injury is a mortal one."

"This is all beside the point!" Ardegil cries. "Lord, tell her she must not leave. For it is madness to wander into the wilderness alone. It will be the death of her."

"Others wander in Beleriand and do not perish," Faelwen says.

"Not alone!"

"Then I will find companions. Or I will die, if death is my fate. At least my heart will be unburdened."

"Is there no room in your heart for your friends?"

Faelwen turns to him. "Then come with me."

There's a long silence. Maglor finally speaks.

"I ask no one to remain with us against their will," he says. "I do not counsel you to go, but I will not hinder you."

"Let the case be brought to Lord Maedhros!" an onlooker shouts.

"Faelwen was born in the Gap," Maglor says. "The decision is mine."

"Then I shall take my leave." Faelwen bows to Maglor. Then she turns to Ardegil. "Farewell, friend. Come with me if you will. Or if you can be happy here, stay."

She passes out of the camp.

Ardegil stands there for a time, watching her go. At last he speaks to Maglor.

"Lord," he says, "I must follow her."

Maglor nods. "You have my leave to go."

"I am sorry I could not serve you better. But she is right. We no longer have a place here."

"I hope you find it elsewhere, then, if you may," Maglor says. "May the stars shine upon the end of your road."

Elrond and Elros watch as Ardegil puts on a pack, straps a sword to his side, and bows to Maglor as Faelwen did. Then he walks away through the tents. The sight of him going makes Elrond feel lonely.

"Good riddance," the man in the crowd who spoke before says softly.

"Silence your tongue!" Maglor cries. He sounds angrier than Elrond has ever heard him. "That we live poisonous lives is no reason to glory in our venom."

The man frowns. "Of course, my lord. But if these deserters, noble as they may be, come running back to us, shall we welcome them with open arms?"

Maglor hesitates.

"No," he says at last. "They shall not return."

Soon the camp has been dismantled. The journey will be on horseback, and neither of the twins has been on a horse before. Maglor brings up his gray stallion and lifts Elros onto his back. Elros looks uncomfortable, but Maglor smiles. "Do not be afraid. Celeblain will not let you fall."

Elrond, watching, is afraid for an entirely different reason—that this means he'll have to ride with Maedhros—but instead Maglor gives him to a woman named Lossi, who rides swiftly and says little.

The horses go smoothly, but riding is nevertheless a tiring business. They stop only once, for the midday meal. Elrond is exhausted and aching by the time they stop for the night, and Elros has fared no better. They fall asleep as soon as dinner is over, too weary to give any thought to escape.

The next night, Elrond is alert enough to watch the rest of the camp and work out the best moment for flight. When they first dismount, there 's some disorder, maybe they could grab their pack and slip off—but then there's dinner, and Maglor would notice that they're gone right away. They'll have to leave while everyone is asleep. But that will be tricky, because everything is quiet and open, and there's a watch.

Another day passes without a good moment. They're getting nervous; each day they are heading farther and farther away from Sirion. What if they can't find their way back? But the only alternative is to give up, and they won't do this. Maglor couldn't stop Faelwen and Ardegil from going, and he won't stop them, either.

The fourth night of their journey, Elrond can't sleep. The ground is rocky, and it's impossible to get comfortable. He lies with his eyes open, watching wisps of clouds drift over the stars.

Suddenly he notices movement much closer to him. The man on watch has left to relieve himself.

Elrond rolls over and nudges his brother awake.

"What?"

Elrond points at the retreating guard. "Now," he mouths.

Elros understands. He nods.

Slowly and silently as they can, they roll up their blankets and put them into their saddlebag. They try to stay low to the ground, but there's not much to fear; there's no fire and hardly any moon. Maglor lies nearby, but he is sound asleep, and does not wake.

They fasten their cloaks, and Elros slings the saddlebag over his shoulder. It's half as large as he is, but he manages it well enough. He's about to stand, but Elrond stops him and whispers, "Crawl."

Last night when no one was listening, they discussed which way they should head once they escaped. They decided to make for the forest in the south. They can see it clearly from the camp, a mass of trees extending east and west. It will be a good place to hide, and if they follow the edge of it, they will be back beside the Sirion in no time at all.

They slowly creep away from the camp. Luckily, they are near the perimeter, so they only have to shuffle past a few sleepers before they reach the open grass. Elrond keeps glancing back, heart pounding, waiting for someone to discover them, but no one does.

They crawl until they can no longer make out the camp in the darkness. Then they stand and grin at one another.

"We've done it," Elros says.

"We can go anywhere we like now," Elrond says.

"And they can't make us come back. Even if they wanted us to, we're not supposed to. We're deserters."

It's a lovely feeling, freedom. Elrond isn't tired at all anymore; he feels like he could run all night. Everything Maglor has ever said to them now seems dim and ridiculous. After all, why wouldn't he lie? He's an enemy. For all they know, they'll return home to find their mother waiting for them.

They walk until dawn, at which point, not bothering with blankets, they collapse beneath the eaves of Taur-im-Duinath and fall into a deep and peaceful sleep.


	4. IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the Third Kinslaying, two pairs of brothers struggle to repair their broken families.

A hand on his shoulder. "The twins are gone."  
  
Of course they are gone, they are dead, is Maglor's first hazy thought upon waking. Then he looks up. Maedhros bends over him, face pale, eyes intent with worry.  
  
"What do you mean?" he cries, sitting up.  
  
"They're not in the camp, and their things are gone. I've looked. There are tracks in the grass leading south."  
  
Maglor rises immediately. "I will go now. I shall have to take Celeblain; I can't track them on a horse, but we will need his speed to catch up to you. Don't wait for us, though."  
  
"We cannot both go," Maedhros says.  
  
Maglor looks at him in surprise. "Do you mean to come with me?"  
  
"I am a better tracker than you," Maedhros says matter-of-factly. "They are children and they have a light step. But we cannot leave the others leaderless."  
  
"They do not really need us," Maglor says.  
  
"They need you."  
  
Maglor doesn't know what to do. The boys' welfare is his responsibility; it's his fault they managed to run off in the night like this. But it is true that Maedhros will do a better job at finding them, and there is something in Maedhros's manner that speaks of a peculiar sense of responsibility. He is thinking, perhaps, of another pair of young boys for whom he searched long ago.  
  
"Go, then," he says. "But please hurry."  
  
"I will find them," Maedhros says. It's all he has to say. He frowns, but it's a frown Maglor hasn't seen for a long time. He wore it before his abdication; he wore it before the Nirnaeth. I will do this thing, his face declares.  
  
Maglor believes he will.  
  
***  
  
Elrond wakes to the sound of his brother's screaming.  
  
When he opens his eyes, he screams as well. Standing above them is a black bear.  
  
To say it's enormous is an understatement. The bulk of it above them blocks everything else from view. One huge paw is on his brother's legs.  
  
Elrond tries to squirm away, but the bear snaps at him, revealing horrible yellow teeth. Then it returns its attention to Elros, who is lying most directly beneath it.  
  
"Help!" they both cry, but it's useless—there is no one to hear them.  
  
Elrond grabs a stick. His hand is shaking; he doesn't know what he means to do. He holds it in front of him like a dagger. He might stab it in the eye, but he can't reach.  
  
He doesn't get a chance to try. Suddenly there is the sound of running. The bear turns to see the cause of the disturbance. Elrond turns too.  
  
It's Maedhros.  
  
He advances toward the bear, sword in his hand, hair flaming out like a mane. The bear senses the threat immediately. With surprising speed, it moves forward and lunges.  
  
Maedhros is ready. Before the bear can strike, he slices into its shoulder. It roars in pain and tries to bite him, but Maedhros dodges. There is a streak of metal, and the battle is over—Maedhros's sword is plunged to the hilt in the bear's side.  
  
The bear falls to the ground. It dies more slowly than Elrond would have expected, trembling a little as its blood seeps into the leaves. Elrond watches it, unable to move.  
  
Maedhros pulls out his sword and wipes it on the grass. His eyes move over them in a cursory fashion. "Are you hurt?"  
  
They shake their heads, or try to. They're both shaking as it is.  
  
"Was... was that from Morgoth?" Elros asks, clambering to his feet and pulling up Elrond beside him.  
  
"No," Maedhros says. "Just an ordinary black bear."  
  
"But aren't bears afraid of people?" Elrond asks.  
  
"Yes, they usually are." Maedhros looks up at the shadowy forest canopy. They've slept through most of the day, and it's getting on evening. "There is something wrong with this forest. I don't think it's safe anymore. You're certain you're not hurt?"  
  
"Fine," Elros manages.  
  
"I suppose you realize what a miracle it is that you are even alive. If that bear had attacked you a few minutes earlier, you would both be dead."  
  
Elrond thinks it is more than a miracle. He has never seen anything like Maedhros just now—the way he moved like his arm and sword were one, the fluidity of his attack. And although he is frightened of this ferocity—the battle at the Havens still like a brand upon his memory—he cannot help but admire it as well. Someday, he thinks, I want to be able to wield a sword like that.  
  
"Thank you," he says quietly.  
  
But Maedhros seems not to hear him. "When we get back, Maglor will apologize to you, as if it's his fault you ran off. But it was nothing less than suicide to go off like this alone, and you knew that. You shall never do such a thing again."  
  
"But we can't go back," Elros says.  
  
"It isn't up for discussion."  
  
"But we're deserters! He won't let us!"  
  
A strange expression comes into Maedhros's face. It's almost as if he's going to laugh. "Deserters. Well, I suspect Lord Maglor, in his kindness, will pardon you. Now follow me."  
  
Maedhros begins to walk. Elros grabs their pack, and they hurry along after him. They come to a clearing where Maedhros's horse—a black beast of a stallion—waits. Looking at him, you would think him half-wild, but at a word the monster stoops docilely, and Maedhros helps them up. Maedhros mounts himself, and they are off with a gallop.  
  
They ride out of the forest and head east, away from the setting sun. Maedhros takes care to stay away from the trees. He doesn't explain why he came instead of Maglor, and they don't ask. They silently share a piece of waybread from their bag. Elrond knows his brother is thinking the same thing he is—they are trapped. There is no longer any question of escape.  
  
It doesn't matter. Maedhros and Maglor are right about one thing—the world is no longer safe, and they, children, are useless in it. No one is going to save them from the sons of Fëanor—the sons of Fëanor are the ones doing the saving.  
  
The ride long into the night. It's nearly dawn when they stop. They share another meal of water and waybread. It's gotten very chilly, and the twins can't stop shivering.  
  
Maedhros frowns, then shrugs. "We're in no particular danger. I'll build a fire."  
  
Elrond wonders if they should help, but Maedhros goes about his business as if they aren't there, so they wrap themselves in their blankets and watch. It's funny to see him pile logs, strike tinder, and build up the flames, all one-handed. He works so efficiently that it seems effortless, but Elrond guesses that it must have taken him a good deal of practice. He wonders for the first time how he lost the hand. In battle? But the right hand probably would have been his sword-hand. How did he survive the fight?  
  
Maedhros must have seen him watching, because he says, quite softly, "My best friend cut it off."  
  
Elrond and Elros both stare.  
  
"Why?" they demand in unison.  
  
Maedhros still doesn't look at them. His face is red in the firelight. "I was a prisoner in Thangorodrim. Morgoth was very pleased at having the eldest son of Fëanor in his grasp, so he decided he would rather torment me than kill me. He hung me by my right arm from a precipice. Fingon came to rescue me, but he couldn't free me. I asked him to kill me, but he was cleverer than that, and cut off my hand." He smiles vaguely. "One might question whether he made the correct choice."  
  
Elrond can only look at him in horror. Cutting off your friend's hand might be less awful than killing him, but he can't imagine doing either.  
  
"Does it hurt?" Elros asks.  
  
"Not anymore, no."  
  
"We're... we're related to King Fingon," Elrond says timidly. "He was our great-grandfather's brother." He wonders why Fingon and Maedhros were friends to begin with, but it's probably not a good question to ask.  
  
"He was my cousin."  
  
"We're related." It's not a thought he likes.  
  
"Distantly, yes."  
  
"Where are your other brothers?" Elros asks.  


Elrond and Maedhros both look up in surprise.  
  
"In the stories people tell about Lúthien and Beren," he says quickly, gaze fixed on the ground, "there are sons of Fëanor. But their names are different. And people speak of the seven sons of Fëanor." He looks up. "Are they in Ossiriand?"  
  
"All of my brothers save Maglor are dead," Maedhros says.  
  
Elrond gasps despite himself. "All of them?"  
  
"Yes." There is no movement in his face. In the darkness, he looks like a wooden carving. He says nothing more, and Elrond knows they must ask no more questions.  
  
"Go to sleep," Maedhros says at last. "I'll be keeping watch."  
  
Elrond lies down by the fire. He doesn't close his eyes right away. The sky is gray and starless; the fire is the only light he can see. Maedhros sits beside them, staring out into the distance, apparently immune to the cold.  
  
As Elrond falls asleep, his worries about the future fall away, and all he can think about is what Maedhros has told them tonight. His mind is crowded with phantoms—ghosts of dead brothers, and friends wielding swords against friends. It is so strange and sad, and he does not know how one person can bear it. Apparently they bear it by becoming like Maedhros.  
  
Yet this morning, when he killed the bear, he was like a hero. He saved their lives, and thought nothing of doing so. Why are they alive and his brothers dead? None of it fits together.  
  
He looks over at Elros. He is clearly asleep, mouth a little open, hair sticking up at odd angles. The sight of him is comforting.  
  
They are safe with Maedhros watching over them, he decides. It doesn't make sense, that he should be a source of safety, but that's how it is.  
  
He falls asleep quickly, and sleeps well.  
  
***  
  
Maedhros sits by the flickering fire while the boys sleep. They are folded up like young birds, . Fear has been riding beside him all day. It's been a strangely unselfish emotion—not, I will fail them like I failed their mother's brothers, nor, Maglor will blame me if I cannot find them. The thoughts that predominated were those of the boys themselves, Elrond and Elros, so young, and vulnerable, and alone.  
  
Not that he's been doing a particularly good job of acting on these generous feelings. What possessed him to tell them about Thangorodrim, he hardly knows. Whatever Maglor may say, it's a grisly story to tell children. Yet he was once so good with children—eldest brother to six of them, with seven younger cousins to boot. He listened to them, and made them laugh, and taught them about the world without alienating them from it. It kept him young. But that was ages ago; he has been old for a long, long time.  
  
He has not been such a good brother since he came to Middle-earth.  
  
The boys sleep until an hour past dawn; he lets them have their rest. When they wake, they share breakfast and ride for most of the day. They don't talk.  
  
It's sunset when Maedhros spots a cluster of riders ahead. He raises a hand; in the distance, Maglor waves back and gallops to meet them. Soon Maedhros can make out his face—it is all exultation.  
  
"Are they all right?" he cries, dismounting.  
  
Maedhros looks at them; they are couched, one on top of the other, in an unlikely slumber. "Asleep," he says softly.  
  
"Ah," Maglor says. "Shall I take one of them, then? They look a bit crowded."  
  
Maedhros dismounts and lifts one of the twins off the horse. The boy is lighter than he remembers young children being—or perhaps he's become accustomed to heavier burdens. He carries him, gingerly as a glass sculpture, into Maglor's waiting arms. As the transfer is made, their eyes meet, and Maglor nods as if he understands something.  
  
Relieved of the weight, Maedhros mounts his horse and rides on to meet the rest of the party. Maglor rides after him.  
  
After a few minutes, the remaining twin wakes. "Where's Elros?" he asks groggily.  
  
"Riding with Maglor. You can see him again when we stop."  
  
"Oh," the boy says, and falls back asleep.  
  
And for one painful moment, Maedhros is a creature of envy. What is happiness but to fall asleep with the certain knowledge that one's brother is safe? The possibility of it gleams like an unattainable jewel, clear and miraculous.  
  
Ambarussa and Ambarussa—in his memory, they are laughing. They are dead, but in death they have, at least, each other. Maedhros can hardly imagine a more desirable lot.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Some Nerdy Endnotes  
  
  
  
This story uses two pieces of History of Middle-earth canon—the story of Amras's death at Losgar, and a version of the Tale of Years that gives us a birth year for Elrond and his brother (according to which they're six-year-old twins when they're captured at Sirion. Whatever six years old means for half-Elves. I guess I imagine them as very precocious five-year-olds.)  
  
  
  
Halfway through this fic I thought it was a good idea to try to use HoME to reconstruct the Sirion story beyond what's available in the published Silmarillion. This was a horrible idea. Luckily the whole thing fell to pieces when I discovered the letter in which Tolkien describes the twins as being found in a cave, which is a nice story but deeply confusing because elsewhere Elwing is said to know that they were captured, and how would she know that if they were just left in a cave somewhere? Unless they were carried off by some of the assailants, left there, and then retrieved by Maglor, I suppose. It's all very confusing. (Tolkien also portrayed them here as infants, which is much less interesting to write about, even if it makes their change in guardianship less emotionally taxing.)  
  
  
  
At any rate, I gave up and decided to stick with published Silmarillion canon (except for the stuff above.)  
  
  
  
  
  
"May the stars shine upon the end of your road" is a direct quote from The Fellowship of the Ring; Gildor says it in parting to Frodo.


End file.
